Beachcomber Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Karen Robards
in question, the knee-high ones he’d been standing in when she’d spotted him. “I didn’t even think about them being on somebody’s patio. I just went after him. I didn’t mean to trespass. I’m sorry.”
She glanced at the bushes. While her attention was momentarily distracted Luke considered leaping up and grabbing the can, but the thought of the consequences if he wasn’t quite quick enough dissuaded him. He knew Mace. He’d trained with it, he’d seen people hit with it, and he’d been hit with it himself. Twice. It wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.
“There’s no cat under there.”
“You probably scared him away with all that screaming. I’ll be lucky if he’s not clear on the other side of the island by now.” Luke managed to sound suitably aggrieved. “What’s with the sound effects, anyway? You hurt yourself or something?”
Her expression changed. Her face tightened, and she cast a hunted glance in the general direction of the ocean.
“There’s a woman on the beach—she needs help right away—and a man. He—”
“You over there! Where’s the fire?” It was a frail-old-woman kind of voice. Luke dared to glance away from the menacing can, and discovered a flashlight beam bouncing like a ball in the darkness just beyond the privacy fence. Clearly whoever was carrying it was approaching along the path through the dunes that connected this beach cottage to the one on its north side. He cringed inwardly. He knew who was hurrying to Christy’s rescue, or at least he thought he did. Her name was Rosa Castellano, and she was the widow of one-time mob capo Anthony “Chub” Castellano. Eighty if she was a day, she lived in the house next door year-round now, courtesy of mob kingpin John DePalma,Donnie Jr.’s father, who owned several properties along this stretch of beach. She basically spent her days tending the lush garden she’d cultivated in her front yard and watching the goings-on in the neighborhood. Luke had a feeling that not much got past her. He knew that he, personally, had not gotten past her. She’d been out in her yard when he and Gary had arrived that morning, and she had watched them suspiciously until they had disappeared into their rented house, which just happened to be next door to Christy Petrino’s on the south side. It was owned by John DePalma too, and had been rented out for the summer, but they’d managed to wangle a kind of emergency sublease.
“Mrs. Castellano, is that you?” There was relief in Christy’s voice. Luke glanced at her sharply. The fact that she knew Rosa Castellano was interesting, if not particularly surprising. Made men and their families had to retire somewhere, and the beaches of the eastern United States were becoming the place of choice. In fact, there were so many former associates of John DePalma in residence up and down the Outer Banks right now that a better name for it would have been New Jersey South.
“Yeah, of course it’s me. Who were you expecting, Madonna? Your mama called and told me you were here and asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Mrs. Castellano came around the corner of the privacy fence as she spoke and stopped short to turn her flashlight on Luke. Its beam caught him full in the eyes. He squinted, and waved a feeble hello. Mrs. Castellano squinched up her eyes and frowned as if trying to place him in her memory.
“Could you go home and call for help?” Christy asked, still keeping him covered with the spray.
“I already called the fire department when I heard you yelling ‘fire.’ You need the cops, too? You shoulda said.” Mrs. Castellano was a plump dumpling of a woman with sparse white hair, enough wrinkles to do a whole litter of shar-pei puppies proud, a sharp, beaklike nose above a tiny, pursed mouth, and an age-stooped back. Tonight she was wearing a knee-length robe zipped up over what was presumably a nightgown and mule-type slippers. She might look frail, she might sound frail, but
She glanced at the bushes. While her attention was momentarily distracted Luke considered leaping up and grabbing the can, but the thought of the consequences if he wasn’t quite quick enough dissuaded him. He knew Mace. He’d trained with it, he’d seen people hit with it, and he’d been hit with it himself. Twice. It wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.
“There’s no cat under there.”
“You probably scared him away with all that screaming. I’ll be lucky if he’s not clear on the other side of the island by now.” Luke managed to sound suitably aggrieved. “What’s with the sound effects, anyway? You hurt yourself or something?”
Her expression changed. Her face tightened, and she cast a hunted glance in the general direction of the ocean.
“There’s a woman on the beach—she needs help right away—and a man. He—”
“You over there! Where’s the fire?” It was a frail-old-woman kind of voice. Luke dared to glance away from the menacing can, and discovered a flashlight beam bouncing like a ball in the darkness just beyond the privacy fence. Clearly whoever was carrying it was approaching along the path through the dunes that connected this beach cottage to the one on its north side. He cringed inwardly. He knew who was hurrying to Christy’s rescue, or at least he thought he did. Her name was Rosa Castellano, and she was the widow of one-time mob capo Anthony “Chub” Castellano. Eighty if she was a day, she lived in the house next door year-round now, courtesy of mob kingpin John DePalma,Donnie Jr.’s father, who owned several properties along this stretch of beach. She basically spent her days tending the lush garden she’d cultivated in her front yard and watching the goings-on in the neighborhood. Luke had a feeling that not much got past her. He knew that he, personally, had not gotten past her. She’d been out in her yard when he and Gary had arrived that morning, and she had watched them suspiciously until they had disappeared into their rented house, which just happened to be next door to Christy Petrino’s on the south side. It was owned by John DePalma too, and had been rented out for the summer, but they’d managed to wangle a kind of emergency sublease.
“Mrs. Castellano, is that you?” There was relief in Christy’s voice. Luke glanced at her sharply. The fact that she knew Rosa Castellano was interesting, if not particularly surprising. Made men and their families had to retire somewhere, and the beaches of the eastern United States were becoming the place of choice. In fact, there were so many former associates of John DePalma in residence up and down the Outer Banks right now that a better name for it would have been New Jersey South.
“Yeah, of course it’s me. Who were you expecting, Madonna? Your mama called and told me you were here and asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Mrs. Castellano came around the corner of the privacy fence as she spoke and stopped short to turn her flashlight on Luke. Its beam caught him full in the eyes. He squinted, and waved a feeble hello. Mrs. Castellano squinched up her eyes and frowned as if trying to place him in her memory.
“Could you go home and call for help?” Christy asked, still keeping him covered with the spray.
“I already called the fire department when I heard you yelling ‘fire.’ You need the cops, too? You shoulda said.” Mrs. Castellano was a plump dumpling of a woman with sparse white hair, enough wrinkles to do a whole litter of shar-pei puppies proud, a sharp, beaklike nose above a tiny, pursed mouth, and an age-stooped back. Tonight she was wearing a knee-length robe zipped up over what was presumably a nightgown and mule-type slippers. She might look frail, she might sound frail, but
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